The Probability of the Impossible
by OrisounAsh
Summary: A collection of one-shots and vignettes centering mainly on Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin, from varying points of view. (There will be an occasional Lincoln and Octavia moment as well.) Prompts are welcome and encouraged.
1. Always Was

Author's Note: This will be a collection of prompts from around the internet, and any suggestions you may have as well. They are in no particular chronological order, nor will they all be canon. Prompt: _After 3 years on earth, Bellamy proposes to her in bed, in a tangle of sheets and dark, morning hours. _

* * *

It's not morning, not just yet, but he is awake.

Even though summer is upon them - and what a stifling one it has been thus far - and the nights are far shorter, he finds that he can only sleep until that last dark hour, before night begrudgingly gives way to pale dawn. He thinks maybe it is a holdover from their days of fighting and scrapping for life, the months when every ounce of sunlight had to be wrung out of the day just for survival. He'd had a hard time, then, with the lives of so many tied to his every word, every deed, and sleep had not come easy.

But now, their community is housed and fed and _healthy_, building new successes on top of old as they create a their own path in the world. He has seen structures rise and forests fall over the past few years, and held more than a few babbling, messy babes - there is something about prosperity that drives the urge to procreate - but none of it can compare to the flourishing feeling of _right_ he felt in her presence.

It had taken him more than a bit to realize what the painful stutter in his heart was when he saw her, or why the exhilarative nature of her touch could set his skin ablaze.

What he hadn't known then was she'd felt the same.

Of course, it took them a while to finally put one another out of their misery, but when they did, it was three days before anyone could drag them from his cabin.

A year has gone by since then, and he still feels that zip of a shock when she kisses him, and that overwhelming warmth when she tells him she loves him. _Love_. Before the 100, before the assassination, before _her_, he didn't think he was capable of loving anyone with the capacity that he loved Octavia. His heart had been hardened and cracked, with no room left for anyone who wasn't family.

And then one day he came to the realization (with his sister's unsolicited aid) that he'd made room for another, a particular blonde menace; after that, it was a confusing, wild ride for them both.

Now, he is laying stretched and sweating beneath the rough cotton sheets, one arm crooked behind his damp curls, the other reaching out to the golden mass of hair beside him. They don't cuddle as much as one would think, particularly with the amount of sex they have; their nights are spent drinking in one another's bodies, but he always wakes up with her touch absent.

All save for her strong, delicate fingers.

At the moment, she is lying on her stomach, face turned away but her hand resting on his outstretched arm, pale fingers curled around his tanned skin. Her breathing is slow, easy to time with his own, and though he has seen it a thousand times, the lines of her shoulder and the hypnotic curve of her back fascinate his sight. He could have her body every night for the rest of his life, and he would always find it captivating; he could hear her speak his name till his dying breath, and he would never tire of listening; he could quarrel and argue and _get proved wrong_ for the rest of eternity, if it were her on the other side.

And that is when the urge to say she is _his_ hits him hard.

Sure, others in their community have gotten hitched, taken vows, and proven to some higher authority that they were committed to one another, but he had never really seen Clarke as a woman who needed that. They belong to each other, entirely and without reservation, and he would die in a heartbeat for the frustrating doctor.

He knows she would never hesitate to die for him.

Did they need to get fancied up and have a celebration just to prove something really only the two of them need to know? Five minutes ago he would have said no, but now, he wants the entire damn world to know that they are for only one another; they have been through fire and blood and agony to survive to this day,_ fuck him_ for not realizing how incredible it is that they made it at all.

His pounding, rabbit-hole thoughts are reined back as he feels her fingers begin to draw small, erratic designs on his scarred skin. He shivers at the contact, and from under that mane of blonde, he hears her blearily comment on "hearing him think".

An anxious - why anxious, why the hell is he suddenly nervous? - dry response hums through his lips, and he can't quite bring himself to carry on with the half-begun conversation. But even in her semi-conscious state, she knows something is up, so she smoothes her fingers over his forearm, prompting him to tell her what's wrong.

"Marry me."

The words slip out unbidden but echo with the weight of thunder. His heart stops for a half-beat, then pounds away, causing his breath to hitch. He thinks she might balk, but instead, she shifts under the sheets, turning to face him with a hazy look he can't quite place.

"I thought we already were."

She is still sleepy - he can tell from the drowsiness in her voice - but he knows she is alert enough to see the worry on his face. However, before he can formulate anything to satisfy that partial query, she moves to him, slinging a leg over his hips and settling her slight weight on his. Her soft skin, pulled taut over pliant muscle, glides across his sweat-slicked form, and for a moment he can't decide if this is a diversionary tactic or a platform for a serious discussion (it wouldn't be the first time they'd deliberated over important issues while naked and in compromising positions).

He doesn't move, but just as he thinks he is going to be the one to speak up next, she places a hand on chest, and smiles.

"You're already _mine_, Bellamy Blake. You have been since the day I gave you my heart. But if you want the jewelry to prove it, I'm sure Raven would be happy to make something in-"

He doesn't need to hear anymore, and doesn't give her the chance as he snares her close and kisses her silly, knowing there is the most ridiculous smile on his face but not finding it in himself to care.

They might not have rings, or an official document, but she said he is _hers_.

And who is he to argue.


	2. Old Married Couple

Author's Note: A prompt from tumblr. _Bellarke worries about one another._

To Guest reviewer: Thank you for the comments, and while I hadn't planned on doing anything with their ceremony, now that you mention it, it sounds like an excellent idea.

* * *

She isn't a blind woman, so she can see the obvious. And the obvious is that the princess and her brother are extreme worriers.

Especially about _one another._

They don't realize it, of course, or else she thinks they would be mortified by the obviousness of their actions. Daily life for everyone has settled into a rare stage of (semi) normalcy, and that lends a bit of boredom to the mix. Where once they were fighting for their lives, now the 100 have walls and homes, a settlement of their own, and the constant edge of fear had slipped away to a background thought.

Except for those two fucking idiots.

She has a lifetime's worth of examples to chose from, exemplary moments of their oblivious worry for one another, but she has a choice few that she will always hang over their heads.

The first is simple, but classic Bellamy.

His princess had been cooped up in their renovated medical hall (because Bellamy wanted one of the largest buildings to be dedicated to _medicine_) due to one of their first disasters: the support structure for their new well had collapsed, severely injuring five men. The great doctor had been overwhelmed, but surged ahead with her work, submerging herself in disinfectant and gauze and blood.

Bellamy had been in and out of that building enough to wear a path in the fresh-cut floor.

In the beginning, it was a simple "do you need anything?", which of course she denied. Then it was "you need to eat" echoed by "you need to sleep" and followed closely behind by "you are going to work yourself to death".

She ignored all of it, until he began leaving her water. And food. And a blanket and pillow.

But in the end, he had simply marched in, barked at the attendants to watch the patients, snatched up a sleep-deprived Clarke, and carted her off to his cabin (under the auspices that is was "farther away" and "quieter"). She had shouted slurred words at him, but since nothing else came of the act other than her reappearance the next morning - looking fit and hale - he hadn't taken it too personally.

Nextly, she likes to remind him of that one (admittedly amusing) time his princess got blind drunk and sick as a mutated dog, and he stayed with her for the entirety of the night, before tending to her - as discreetly as possible - for the remainder of the next day.

But above all, she loves the night the princess fretted over her brother, a look of profound worry creased into her brow.

The empty-headed, "I'm Bellamy Blake and I know better" boy had been nearly crushed by a tree felled incorrectly, and his shoulder and ribs had bore the brunt of it. It was a wicked injury, but not one that required constant overwatch.

Which is _precisely _what the princess proceeded to do.

It just so happened that that night Octavia was working in the med hall, and she couldn't help but notice the doctor taking a break every fifteen minutes or so, disappearing for "pee breaks" or "errands". But again, Octavia isn't an idiot, and she knew _exactly_ where the blonde was headed.

And every time the woman returned, her face would be lighter, her frown less frowny, and her speech less troubled. But given enough time, those worry lines would return and her thoughts would become erratic, finally forcing Octavia to bluntly ask if the princess wanted to spend the night at her brother's.

Oh, God, the look she got from that one.

An Ark load of words came out of the woman's mouth, but nothing really made sense, until finally the blonde looked defeated. She had picked up her kit, grabbed an extra blanket, and hissed out a "I am only doing this because you're going to Lincoln's tonight" before marching out into the night, and on to the stupid, reckless boy's house.

Even now, as she peruses furs with her husband, fingers linked with his (fuck if she is ever going to let him go again) she can see them trying not to cause a scene as the blonde insists it's "just a scratch" and Bellamy ignores her while herding her to the medical hall (she's gotta admit, he's getting pretty good at that).

They are both morons, but Octavia is no fool: you don't wear those frowns and fret to distraction over anyone other than the ones you love.


	3. Surprise Pets

Author's Note: _Prompt: Bellamy gives Clarke a pet as a gift._

* * *

She is never tagged for missions anymore, and even when she volunteers - less and less these days - she is denied. Her expertise is invaluable, her hands are a precious commodity, but her leadership is beyond priceless.

The 100 have become a separate entity from the community established around the Ark, even gaining members as those of the younger crowd have come to realize how stagnate the faltering government their "leaders" concocted from previous council laws has become. And all of them - old and new - respect her opinion, value her words, and above all, see her as the person who directs their future.

Well, not the _only_ person.

Of course, he still manages to escape the community, running missions (and _errands_for her, not that he would ever admit it) that scouted new terrain and old forest, often training new 100 members to become trackers and fighters; it's rare to find a Grounder now, so close to home, but the Reapers hold to no territory.

It was on one such (tedious) mission that he stumbled across - quite literally - a pair of very young ferrets; at least, that's what he remembered them being called from Earth Sciences. They were weak and malnourished and very clearly without a mother. The obvious thing to do would be to leave them for nature to deal with.

But he found he couldn't stop his hands from reaching out and scooping them up, their small bodies tangling together in his grasp. He dumped them into a satchel and carried on with their trek back home, knowing full well who he would be leaving them with.

Today, those two are as much a menace as their blonde-haired mother.

They are never far from her, scurrying behind her with purpose or riding proud on her shoulders, always happy to be in her presence.

He knows the feeling.

At first, she had been skeptical of their arrival, not wanting to take on more lives to care for, but her heart wouldn't let her stay hard for long. He had to admit, they were so damn adorable, taking to her immediately and following her every lead; she has that effect on everything it seems. So, soon there were two holy terrors following her about (named George and Carlin, respectively) that stole anything small and intriguing they could get their grabby paws on.

But no one said a word, because she had a small bit of living Earth tagging behind her and sleeping next to her head and bringing her exotic items like a washer from Monty's newest still; they did these things, and she smiled. Not the quick, polite smile she gave in public, or the one she had to plaster on in the face of her friends. It was the smile she gave when she thought no one was looking, when the weight of two worlds wasn't suffocating her.

She smiles that smile at him sometimes.

So he supposes he doesn't mind that occasionally two rounds of ammunition will go missing, or that his entire bag of deer jerky has been raided, because he gets to see that smile.

A few bites and a handful of stolen items is well worth it.


	4. The Thing That Finally Happened

Author's Note: I wanted to say _thank you_ for all the reviews and kind words. And a thank you, too, to everyone who has followed and favourited.

_Prompt: How Bellarke got together._

* * *

They are arguing _again_, and this time there is serious sort of tint to their vitriol. The pair obviously thinks no one is watching, though they are standing just outside her brother's small cabin, and there are more than a few people milling around the communal brazier.

Including one _very_ interested sister.

This isn't a new thing, not by a long shot, but their disagreements have been fewer and fewer over the past year. She's noticed they aren't as attached to the hip as they once were, and they never go on missions together (not that the good doctor is allowed to tag along anymore). She chalks it up to the innumerable responsibilities they've been saddled with over the past year, and between making a home for the 100 to brokering peace with the Grounders - she may have had _something_ to do that - they haven't had a lot of time for anything other than a few hours of sleep.

And she isn't an _idiot_. She sees the lost look they get when the other passes by, too overburdened to talk, or the way they brush fingertips and shoulders, brief touches that ground them. She also sees the way her brother smiles stupidly when the princess laughs, or the way the princess' eyes shine when her brother does that dumb grin.

But listening to them now, she thinks all of their minor disagreements from the past year have really come to full, because neither one is holding back. People have begun to leave the warmth of the fire pit to find heat somewhere less awkward, and even her stoic, charming husband has inquired if they should leave.

Like hell she is going to miss out on this one.

So she wraps her Grounder's protective arms around her, and listens to the full-blown World War IV while her husband strokes her stomach (he keeps doing that now that they know they are expecting).

She hears words like "no", "never", "you aren't the boss of me", "just try it", and her personal favourite, "who died and made you king?"

And then, over all of it, she hears, "none of what we've accomplished matters if I lose you".

Instantly, her eyes dart to her brother, who looks shell-shocked and confounded that he'd say such a thing out loud. For her part, the princess looks just as stunned, but she recovers quicker, taking hold of her partner-in-crime and dragging his face down to hers. The kiss is quick but raw, and Octavia can see every emotion coursing through them both. They need each other like metal needs fire to bend, and even if they can't see it, she knows they're on the right path.

Then her brother wraps his arms around his princess, and nearly hoists her off her feet as he returns her advance with a kiss so searing it sends Octavia's eyes scurrying back to the fire. From behind her, she can feel her husband's deep rumble of a laugh, and she grins silly at his words.

"It's about damn time."


	5. Finally Left Behind

Author's Note: Just a quick sketch on what Bellamy felt at the end of 2x16.

* * *

He's been convinced for a while now that life is measured in moments of pain. His pain, pain of another, even that talked-about pain no one likes to admit they ever feel. Those moments mark the timeline of his short life, and he remembers them ever more sharply than just about any other.**  
**

His broken finger at age five.

The cracked rib at age fourteen.

The long lineage of beatings his body's gone through since they fell from the sky.

This pain he feels, it can be sharp and quick, or dull and deep, but always it fades, leaving him to continue on to that next moment. And there are memories attached to these instances, memories that shape him and haunt him as he still struggles to solidify his place amongst a divided group.

The memory of his mother's pain as she bore his sister.

The memory of his sister's pain as she hid beneath his feet.

But these memories are in the past, and while they have guided him and taught him, he has found a place for them in a part of him he only visits when nostalgia grips hold. It is the more _immediate_ pain that overwhelms his ability to compartmentalize and cope, the not _physical_ pain the presses on him at every turn.

He's felt ragged steel part his flesh and spill his blood.

He's felt fists crack his jaw and boots pound his body.

And he's witnessed the same for his sister, the one he promised to keep safe. He's witnessed it for all those who exalted him as _leader_, those unwanted and discarded that he's come to know as his people, his _responsibility_. Every blow they take, every broken bone and bloodied body he sees marks another memory, another moment he tries to file away and relegate to _then_. To the _past_. Because if he allows them to exist all at once, they will pull him under with their red, ruined weight and drown him in inadequacy and guilt.

So he puts them aside, learns from them, and carries on.

But this is a pain he wasn't prepared for.

This is a pain that lingers open and raw.

She walked away from him, from _them_, from _their people_ that she battled so hard to liberate, and he didn't fight her. He watched her go and did nothing to prevent it, because he knew she would never stop, not even for the words he wanted to say. He almost spoke them, but her conviction left him swallowing them with a bitter aftertaste. They had a last embrace and that's when he _felt _it, the gaping, ragged wound that cut him from the inside, and he knew instantly this pain is not one he'll be able to simply file away. He knows now as he stares at the spot she once occupied that _this_ pain is not going to diminish with time or space or happy thoughts.

_This _pain will last because the weapon that caused it is still being twisted in his chest.

She walked away, and left behind a wound that will rot away the part of him belonging to her.

He thought he understood pain.

She has proven how little he knows.


End file.
